Abort
RESE SCHILLE
Sun lit up the stage
highlighting
cobwebs and dust motes.
Spiders scurried like
rats dying
from poisonous gas.
On a nearby bench
the word “air”
was scraped as if it
was a dying wish.
One last plea
before the dancer
suffocated. I
ran my gloved
hand lightly across
the bench, brushing sand
onto the
floor of the concave
theatre. I had
hoped someone
would be alive here.
Every place on this
desolate
street empty thus far.
We waited too long
to come back.
“NO SURVIVORS” will
be the headline of
my mission
report. Mission failed.